It Doesn't Just Happen When You're Walking
When I give people pedicab rides I always get asked if I feel safe. The motherly looking woman (surely thinking of her own little one) tilts her head slightly to the side and asks so sincerely, "are you afraid to be out here on the street late at night? You're just a little thing." I understand her concern; my stature is none too intimidating. Hell, if I had to pick a pedicabber to try and overpower I'd pick me, too.
Because of recent incidents (curiosity, whiskey) we pedicabbers are no longer allowed to carry tasers. So I carry a knife, police baton, and mace. It had never occurred to me that I would need to use them. I've been told that carrying them is enough, and that it would thwart most who are trying to hurt me. It also never occurred to me that someone may not want to hurt me, but rather bed me.
All eleven of the pedicabs that were out on the street one Saturday last spring were parked at the corner of Barnard Street and Congress Street, affectionately called "BarCon". A man stumbled toward us, paint in his jeans and a plain white shirt, and asked for a ride. Generally, the driver who has been waiting the longest at the corner would get the ride, but I didn't want it. I politely excused myself from the opportunity saying, "I'm sorry; I'm not first up."
This was a lie, and the other drivers around me knew that. Except for one: Simon. He was, as some would say "spacey", with his long blond ponytail and strange, clear retainer that covered his teeth but was supposed to be invisible. Simon was always well mannered and honest. He truly just had everyone's best interest in mind which is why, of course oblivious to the unfriendly disposition of the drunk man, he said, "No, you are Shelby, don't worry. This is your ride." I could tell he thought he was doing me a favor. The drunk fare seemed pleased though, haphazardly crawled into my cab, and then yelled, "That's right, girl! I want yer ass peddlin' me around!"
As we started riding he became extra talkative. He said, "You know yer generation don't know shit about shit. None of y'all even know how to shingle a damn roof. I'm goinā to the Chatham Apartments by the way sweet-cheeks."
The Chatham Apartments is high-rise trailer trash. The whole building smells like one giant cigarette and everyone and everything looks sun faded. I knew I wasn't going to make a lot of money on the ride, so I didn't try to talk with him. It didn't matter much, he was talking so damn much himself I didn't have any room to speak. I rode quickly. The faster I got there the sooner he'd be out of my pedicab.
When we arrived at his apartment, I dismounted and quietly said a thank you. He fumbled with his pockets and pulled out a wad of moist dollars. I cringed. His salt and pepper beard and mustache, scraggly as it was, covered his mouth. Through his facial hair he grumbled, "300 dollars." So, I laughed. Perhaps it was rude, or even ignorant of me, to assume that because he lived in such a shitty place that he couldn't possibly afford to give me that much money. Then he fanned it all out in front of me.
"I'll give you 300 dollars. For a real ride."
That's when I realized what was happening. I have never been propositioned before, pedicabbing or not, for money (be it lack of looks or lack of tits I'm unsure) and it took me by surprise.
"Oh... Uh, no. Sir, I'm a pedicabber not a prostitute and-"
"I know, I know. You just ain't that kinda girl. I know, well I'm sorry. I'm sorry; I know."
He reached out to touch my arm in what I assume was condolence. I pulled away and took a small step back.
"Don't touch me, please."
He got out of the cab, took a step toward me, and grabbed my arm. I was surprised how quickly he moved given his drunkenness earlier. I could feel his callouses rub the little hairs on my forearm and tug them backward. His pinky nail was long and it dug into my elbow. I yanked my arm out of his grasp and ripped the knife out of my pocket, simultaneously opening it. I have never moved so gracefully in my life.
"Don't fucking touch me!"
"Put the fucking money in the cab!"
I was yelling loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Looking back, I see now that it probably looked like I was robbing him: me yelling about money with a knife pointed at this old drunk man. He fell back a few steps and quickly placed bills on the seat of the cab. Then he skittered through the doors of his decaying apartment complex.
I breathed heavily and put my knife back in my pocket. Peeling the wet dollars apart, I counted the money he left. I thought he gave me a lot by how thick the wad seemed and how afraid he was when I threatened him. Perhaps violence does pay. Then I got to the last bill, the tenth one dollar bill, and sat down. I was pissed. I held a knife to his chest and he still only gave me ten bucks. But as I sat longer I realized things could have been worse. I got ten dollars and I didn't get violated. Then I realized that I shouldnāt have to threaten to stab a man in the heart to get a point across. I hope I left a mental scar.